


Prompt No.1 - Shaky Hands

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 01:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Alexander kills someone for the first time in order to save Washington. Needless to say, it doesn't settle well with the young aide-de-camp.For Whumptober 2019Prompt No.1 - Shaky Hands





	Prompt No.1 - Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This shit belongs to the man, the myth, the musical legend, Lin Manuel Miranda. And to a history museum.

George twisted around in his saddle, flintlock drawn and aimed behind him at the redcoats returning fire. To his left, Alexander pushed onward, eyes flickering through the trees ahead of them, fingers white around the reins, shoulders tight, chin dipped low.

Over the snap of gunfire, George called, “How far until the camp?”

“Not much longer, sir!” Alexander ducked at the hiss of another bullet flying by. He maneuvered his horse around a tree, dipping under low-hanging branches and jostling as the mare stumbled through the slip-sliding mud. “Laurens said it was nearly a mile from camp; we should be approaching any moment now!”

George pivoted around again, firing fast, catching one of the two British officers in the shoulder. The man flipped off his steed and landed face-first into the dirt. The second one reared closer, snapping his reins, screaming profanities at them. The man scurried to reload his weapon, lips curled in a snarl.

George moved as fast as his fingers allowed and he yanked the gunpowder from his saddlebag. His horse heaved rightward, scuttering in the mud, whinnying at the strain, and wrenching George forward on his back. The powder slipped from his palm. “Shit!”

“Sir?” Alexander’s eyes jumped to George’s open hand, his saddlebag’s flailing-open flap, and stiffened. He rummaged through his coat and, without hesitation, he clumsily held out his own flintlock. “Sir, take mine!” The young aide swallowed thickly, breaths taut. “Please, take it!”

“Keep it!” George ordered. A bullet whistled past his ear. His breath stuttered. “You will need it, mister Hamilton!”

Behind them, the redcoat shouted something, the hooves of his horse picking up speed, a staccato to the slow pace of their exhausted horses. Alexander’s gaze widened. “Sir, I cannot let you die!”

“Then shoot!” George yanked his horse around forest debris.

Alexander snapped his outstretched arm to his chest, and George saw it. He saw the light burning so brightly in his aide’s eyes, eyes lined with the pain of death and despair, but not yet dulled by it. They were eyes that screamed for life, eyes that had barely even lived yet, eyes that had seen death, but never evoked it. And despite Hamilton’s bravery amongst the crowds with his sharp tongue and sharper wit, George wondered, if when they inevitably reached their dead-end, would Alexander shoot?

A pop ripped through the air.

George recoiled, arm suddenly ablaze, sleeve ripped and bright red. He cried out, a hot agony lancing up his arm, hammering through his elbow, fire rippling through his veins as his mind wracked to comprehend that he was just  _ shot _ . He was  _ shot _ . Sweat broke out across his brow as he pulled his arm tight over his stomach and clamped his hand down over whatever the wound may be.

Alexander blanched. “Sir!”

“Shoot them!” George ordered. His gaze clicked with Alexander’s.

After a beat, a whitened apprehension flickered across Alexander’s face. The aide whipped around, pistol raised, aimed, and he fired. He flinched at the blast but held true. The soldier tailing them jerked unnaturally in his saddle before he slumped against his horse, the hole in his head gurgling black blood and brains.

George huffed loudly, smiling, “A fantastic shot, mister Hamilton!”

To his left, Alexander stayed quiet.

Their horses broke through the treeline and into an open field. The orange light of the afternoon sun blinded them as they approached the makeshift camp. Laurens and Lafayette had the men pitching tents and settling in for the evening, their voices loud yet not quite stern enough for command. George slowed his horse to a trot, and Alexander quickly followed suit, rocking in his saddle at George’s side.

As Laurens stepped up to George, he distantly registered Alexander dismounting his mare and guiding her away, towards their camp’s stables. He turned to his aide, mouth open, but no sound came out. His tongue twisted in his throat and he frowned instead, watching Alexander’s back as he slumped away, hands in front of him, head down. His mare huffed, nudged his side, but Alexander didn’t budge.

“Sir,” Laurens brought his attention back to the matter at hand, where the man’s eyes were trained on George’s arm. “You are bleeding, sir. Did you encounter the British?”

“Indeed, mister Laurens.” George lowered himself from his horse. Slowly, he peeled his hand away, revealing a sizable gash near his wrist. The wound was no more than a scrape, a fly-by by a too-close bullet, but nothing serious. It had stopped oozing blood, and was mostly caked over with blackened scab. “We survived only just,” George explained. “If mister Hamilton hadn’t shot when he had, surely…”

“Alexander fired?” Laurens blinked wide.

George hummed. “Indeed.”

“He’s never fired a gun.” Laurens scratched his chin. “A wonder of a shot, that kid, but I thought he not have the stomach for it, to be truthful.”

“Well,” George handed his horse’s reins off to a passing soldier. “He did well. Truly, a marvelous marksman. A head-shot, right to the center of the man’s brow. I’ve not seen anything like it.”

Laurens followed George to where he walked to the medical tent. “Sir, are we in danger of the British finding us? After all, they had found you two…”

“It was mere luck, I assure you, mister Laurens. We were scouting as well, when we stumbled across two men and two men alone for as far as the eye could see. The British will realize they are missing two men, but they will not find us. Besides, we will be gone by morning light.” George wove between the soldiers and the supplies, ducking into the medical tent.

The surgeon’s bugging eyes bore holes into George’s solemn expression as he whined, “Your excellency, what has happened? A bullet wound?”

“Yes.” George settled down on a cot. “Mister Hamilton and I encountered scouts on our way back from our sister camp north of here.”

“And mister Hamilton is well, yes?” The doctor loosened the fabric around the shallow wound and went to work. “Heavens above, that boy has a knack for injury. Did you know that, not even two days prior, he was requiring my services for skinning his knees attempting to rescue a falling squirrel from its mother’s nest. My! What a fool!”

Laurens sheepishly scratched the back of his head as George asked, “Ah. So is that the reason for his absence Monday evening?”

“Yes, sir.” Laurens laughed softly. “He was...quite frazzled by the event.”

George’s eyebrow raised. “But he saved the squirrel?”

“He did, sir.” Laurens smiled. “I’ve not seen a man so gentle with such a creature before. Where we eat the squirrels, I assume Alexander would much prefer to starve himself. A strange, but noble man, is he not?”

\--

Night had long since settled over the field, draping a heavy darkness across the campsite. George flexed his wrist, relishing in the soft burning sensation that crawled up his arm. He was  _ alive _ . He had nearly died, but alas, he was alive, breathing, walking, barely wounded because of Alexander’s sacrifice.

He would be a fool of a general to not acknowledge that.

Outside Alexander’s tent, he heard the scribbling of quill on parchment. His heart fluttered in his stomach, a fondness he found himself developing rather suddenly. Sure, the boy was intelligent, and a fantastic aide with both words and tactics alike, but beside that, Alexander was merely everything George had wanted in a son. His diligence, his bravery, his love for his country and his passion for his beliefs: they were symbolic of America herself, symbolic of everything George wanted to be.

He knew Alexander was a grown man, already strides into adulthood, but he couldn’t help himself from thinking, from wondering, if Alexander would find in George a father, where George found in Alexander a son? A son that he had never got to have. Perhaps God hated him, or perhaps it was God’s will, but George found himself childless and hollow for something so strong and beautiful as a son.

Alexander was flawed. But he was beautiful nonetheless.

A curse flew from the tent, muffled by the heavy fabric. A clinking followed, and then, a crash, one that sent George’s heart into his throat. Without thought, he ripped open the flap to the tent to Alexander’s desk flipped upside-down, papers scooting across the dirt, ink dyeing the grass black. Alexander’s hands were at his eyes, the backs to his face as his palms were dripping with ink. The aide shuttered, fingers twitching, trembling, as he lowered his arms and startled at the sight of George Washington’s head poking through his tent.

Ink smudged on his cheek, a bit on his chin, and over his boots. “Sir…?” His voice was raw, cracked hours ago. “What are you--”

“I heard a commotion,” George admitted. “And wanted to check on you. There are no British in here, yes?” It was meant to be a joke, but Alexander’s face paled.

“No, sir.” Alexander cleared his throat. “No British here…”

“Alexander--”

Alexander interrupted, “Now, if you will excuse me, your excellency, but I have stained my clothes,” He sighed. “And I must change.”

George stepped fully into the tent. His neck kinked at the awkward angle, what with his height, the top of his head brushed against the canvas top. Alexander hovered below him, smearing the ink on his hands onto his pants. Even in full-movement, his fingers jittered, buzzing all the way up his arms, through his shoulders as if he were struck by lightning, teeth clenched tight and jaw wired shut.

“Alexander…” George tried again, carefully. He slowly lowered a hand to his aide’s shoulder. It shook under his hold. “I want to thank you, for saving my life.”

Alexander whispered, “It was nothing, sir.”

“It was  _ everything _ , Alexander.” George said. “If you had not killed that man--” Alexander wilted, then. Only now so close to Alexander could George see the raw, red rims of his eyes, the sheen of a mental sickness on his skin, the crescent-shaped scratches up his wrists, hidden by his shirt sleeves, clawing at the demons underneath. “If you had not done, what you had done,” George remedied. “I would be dead.”

“I...killed someone.” Alexander mumbled. His chin dipped low, messy hair slipping from its tie and falling into his face.

George patted his shoulder lightly. “But in doing so, you have saved me.”

“I am a murderer.”

“I see you not as a murder, but a savior.,” George patted again, rhythmically. “And I’m quite sure that mother squirrel saw a savior to her child, yes?”

Alexander’s head flipped up. He ground out, “Laurens.”

“Indeed.” George grinned. “Quite the tale to hear, I must say. Wartime it may be, but alas, you find the time to save a  _ squirrel _ . Color me impressed, mister Hamilton.”

A bitter laugh choked up Alexander’s throat, wet with tears. “It must seem pathetic.”

“Honorable.  _ Noble _ , mister Laurens said.” George nodded curtly. “I admire your passion, your want to do good, even at the pain it causes you. That is a rare trait in men,  _ especially _ now.”

“Is it…?” Alexander murmured, half to George, half to his boots where he stared.

A drop his George’s shoe. He pretended not to notice. “It is, indeed. I have seen many men flee for their lives on the battlefield, but you, a man who had never let loose a shot, still stayed by my side. And now, tonight, you have stayed by my side once more, and for the better. I am...forever grateful for you, Alexander. I owe you my life. You are no murderer, son. You are a  _ savior _ .”

Alexander squeezed his fists, his brows nestling together, willing the trembling to subside, it seemed. George’s thumb brushed over the crook of Alexander’s neck, only briefly, before he inched away. “Now, rest. We have a long day tomorrow, and I wish my aide to be in perfect condition.”

“I will do my best to not let you down, sir.” Alexander’s hand flew up for a salute.

His hand was steadier than ever before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you like slowburn Hamilton & Burr whump, check out my story called "Pray". I'm not...sure how to insert links but just...check it out. For those of you who know "Pray", sorry, I know it's on a little hiatus, but writers block got me GOOD so I'm working through it with little one-shot whumptober prompts.
> 
> I also apologize for not putting a HUGE amount of effort into these prompts for Whumptober. I want them to be good, don't get me wrong, but with school on top of "Pray" on top of personal life, I'm just...writing to have fun, you know? So sorry if there are errors or something doesn't make sense or if it's short and nonsensical. I'm just having fun.
> 
> Uh...and the end is cheesy. Deal. Because YO we are going to delve into some GOOD WHUMP SHIT in like a few days, maybe not even that, so that's nice!


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